


100 Kisses

by elephantfootprints



Series: Counting Kisses [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 06:12:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephantfootprints/pseuds/elephantfootprints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock loves it when John kisses him. It's a little surprise every time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	100 Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> From the [prompt:](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=126056129#t126056129) Sherlock doesn't think he's pretty or handsome. He doesn't care as his brain is what matters but he has come to the understanding that he also turns people off what with his abrasive personality and downright alien looks. So he always looks surprised when John kisses him or shows him affection because he's seen how many beautiful women with nice(though dull) personalities John can get in a month. Originally posted [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=128708801#t128708801).

The first time John kissed Sherlock it took him completely by surprise. One moment he was rattling off a brilliant deduction in their living room, the next there were John Watson lips pressed against his own, warm hands settled on his hips and just as Sherlock was considering grabbing hold of John’s jumper in case his knees buckled, John was stepping away, leaving Sherlock feeling strangely cool, despite the heat rising in his cheeks.

“Sorry,” John murmured, looking embarrassed but pleased.

“Don’t,” Sherlock said. “It’s fine.”

The second time John kissed Sherlock it was slower, more tentative, John signalling his intentions the entire time so Sherlock could stop him at any moment. Sherlock didn’t, and they sat awkwardly on the couch, John leaning over Sherlock. Kisses three, four and five delighted Sherlock, but he found he was unable to relax and John untangled himself, dropping number six on his forehead and saying, “Tea?”

Kiss number twelve stayed with Sherlock for a few days. It hadn’t been a substantially different kiss to the previous eleven, although John seemed to be growing less tentative and more enthusiastic, but in addition to the usual absurd heart fluttering, Sherlock had felt a disconcerting warm through his groin a belly, a warmth he hadn’t felt since university and the late stages of puberty. So distracted was Sherlock, that he failed to see the fist that came flying at him after some particularly detailed revelations about the owner of the fist’s girlfriend.

Sherlock sat on the sofa, dropping his head to loll along the back of the sofa and was contemplating whether moaning a bit might distract him from his thoughts when John returned.

“How did you manage this, then?” John said. Sherlock opened one eye to look up at John, who was leaning over the sofa to inspect the magnificent bruise his had acquired on his jaw. “Let me guess, you opened your mouth and something perfectly pleasant came out?”

Sherlock glared at him. John laughed, leaned down to very carefully brush number thirteen over Sherlock’s bruise and thankfully turned to the kitchen to fetch some ice and so missed the blush that Sherlock felt burn across his cheeks.

The nineteenth time John kissed Sherlock was in public. Sherlock was rather startled, but he was pleased that John felt so comfortable enough kissing Sherlock that he didn’t mind passers-by seeing them. Sherlock even shuffled a little closer and was rewarded with a hand clasping his nape, a warm hand that lingered there for forty-three seconds after the kiss ended, John smiling at him, and Sherlock desperately trying to recall what triggered this kiss so he could replicate the experience. 

The second time John kissed Sherlock in public (the twenty-eighth kiss in total), was just a quick, pleased-your-alive peck before John jogged over to check on a victim. The DI working the case, a dull man whose name Sherlock had instantly forgotten, snorted in surprise.

“You and him then? Christ, I don’t know how he stands it.” The DI turned to look over where John was tending to a pretty young woman, smiling and laughing with her. “He probably fucks someone on the side, eh?”

Sherlock felt slightly sick.

“Well, come on, why did you think it was the great-aunt?” the DI asked tiredly, pulling out a notebook. Sherlock looked at him uncomprehendingly for a few second before he registered the question.

“The bracelet wasn’t an heirloom,” Sherlock said. “Look for copper stains. See if the uncle has a dog.”

Sherlock had wandered off before the DI had a chance to ask what the hell any of that was supposed to mean. There was no time for him to go anywhere, however, as there was a call from Lestrade, announcing that another victim had turned up, this time at the great aunt’s house.

The taxi ride across to the latest crime scene was quiet. John seemed to sense something was off, and reached out a hand to pat Sherlock’s thigh, just once, before withdrawing it and looking outside, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts. But Sherlock couldn’t think about the case, all he could do was stare at John and try to work out if he had any right to be upset at the thought of other people sleeping with John. If he had any claims to John. If this thing with John was just temporary, a stop-gap before John found himself a woman to settle down with.

John requested that the taxi pull up a few houses away from the crime scene, and Sherlock looked at him curiously. John sighed and reached out a hand to cup Sherlock’s face. Sherlock turned away from what would have been kiss twenty-nine and was irrationally upset when John backed off immediately, hopping out of the taxi, and heading straight to the crime scene. Sherlock frowned and followed three steps behind, not wanting to stray to far from John, but not sure if he wanted to be too close either. John was immediately accosted by someone needing medical help, and Sherlock stood staring at him for long enough to catch Sally Donovan’s attention.

“You two having a tiff?” Sally asked. Sherlock glared at her and Sally’s glanced between them, and sighed. “Look, I can hardly believe I’m giving you advice, but whatever it is you’ve done to upset him, apologise.”

“What _I’ve_ done?” Sherlock said, sounding offended. 

“I know it’s going to be hard to narrow down,” Sally said. “But think hard about it. Please. Somehow you’ve found someone who puts up with you and all your weirdness, and makes you more bearable to be around. For the sake of all of us, apologise and beg for forgiveness.”

Sherlock made a small, displeased noise and stalked over to inspect the latest corpse.

“God, why do men have to be so crap at this?” Sally asked aloud.

“You must be fantastic in bed,” Anderson announced, crouching down next to Sherlock and pulling on blue nitrile gloves. Sherlock scrunched up his nose in disgust.

“This is not a conversation I wish to have with you,” Sherlock said. 

“No,” Anderson said. He shuddered. “God no. I just meant you must be doing something right. Have you seen how many women Watson has turned down lately? Gorgeous women, women I had no idea he’d be able to pull. Women I’d kill to be able to pull. But there he is, making soppy eyes at _you_ , of all people.”

Sherlock stiffened, and tried to look discreetly over at John. Once again, there seemed to be a handful of attractive women needing his attention, but, when Sherlock looked properly even though several of them were clearly indicating signs of attraction, nothing in John’s body language indicated he reciprocated. Sherlock stood up abruptly, snapped something insulting at Anderson, deleted the fact that _Sally and Anderson had just helped him avoid making a huge mistake_ , and walked quickly over to John.

“Can we talk?” Sherlock asked, leaning in closely to John, resting a hand on his elbow and ignoring the women John was dealing with. John glanced at Sherlock curiously.

“Yeah, sure,” John said whispered back. He smiled apologetically at the others. “If you’ll just excuse me, I need to consult with my colleague."

Sherlock dragged John away from the crime scene, and found an empty room.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock mumbled. John looked at him intently. “For- back there. When you went to kiss me and I didn’t let you. That idiotic DI said something about- it doesn’t matter. I wish I hadn’t stopped you.”

John nodded and Sherlock flicked his eyes down to John’s lips and back to his eyes, looking hopeful. Kiss twenty-nine, proper, was rather lovely and Sherlock regretted not getting it sooner. 

Kisses thirty-five to forty-three made up for the discomfort and awkwardness that came with their first time attempting penetrative sex. Sixty-seven through eighty-one were sublime, the pleasure Sherlock found in their softness and soothingly affectionate nature heightened by the contrast with the rough fucking John wanted to try, as well as the fact that John didn’t usually seem inclined to kiss much during sex.

Sherlock had managed to keep his habit of counting kisses from John right up until number eighty-nine. 

Eighty-nine was a particularly good one, though Sherlock was unable to work out what triggered it, as it seemed likely John announcing he needed to go out for milk hardly seemed cause for such a mind-meltingly good kiss. John grinned as he pulled away, heading for the door and Sherlock breathed out “Eight-nine,” with great satisfaction and delight, not realising John could still hear him. There was a pause as John turned back to look at Sherlock.

“You keep count? Of how many times we’ve kissed?” John asked, bemused. Sherlock gave his most indifferent shrug and mumbled a vague affirmative. John frowned, unsure how to react, what it meant. Did Sherlock have a system? A scientifically determined number of kisses for a successful relationship? It was an uncomfortable thought. Eighty-nine seemed low, but Sherlock didn’t seem as keen on kissing as John, so maybe eighty-nine was too many, and Sherlock was about to tell him no more.

Just as John was about to work himself up into a panic, noticed the pinking below Sherlock’s ears, the little blush that trailed right down Sherlock’s neck, and calmed down. That only appeared Sherlock was really pleased with something. Did counting kisses turn Sherlock on?

John smirked at Sherlock and started unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock raised a challenging eyebrow at John, moving to divest John of his clothes. John took that as a sign that he was on the right track with this kiss counting business. Trust Sherlock to have strange turn-ons, but this at least was something John could work with. Could have fun with.

“I want to try something,” John whispered against Sherlock’s lips, pushing him down onto the bed. “I’m curious about how you count kisses.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t say anything so John continued.

“This, for example,” John leant down to give Sherlock a soft, almost chaste kiss. “Is clearly one kiss. And this,” John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s again, coaxing them open and turning the kiss into something more deeper, wet and filthy. John groaned against Sherlock‘s lips and felt himself start to harden. “Would only be one kiss as well, correct?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, breath quickening slightly. “Those were kisses ninety and ninety-one.”

“Okay,” John said. “Would this count?”

John moved down to gently kiss under Sherlock’s jaw.

“Ninety-two,” Sherlock confirmed. John nodded and kissed the same spot again, this time dragging his lips down Sherlock’s neck to suck on his collar bone.

“How many does that count for?” John asked, pleased to see his actions were having a definite affect on Sherlock.

“Just one,” Sherlock said. “You lips were in contact with my skin for the duration.”

John nodded and slid down Sherlock’s body to brush a very soft kiss on each of Sherlock’s hips. “So that was ninety four and five?”

“Correct,” Sherlock said. “Although-”

Sherlock abruptly cut himself off when John moved swiftly across to engulf him, pinning Sherlock’s hips down with his hands, relishing in Sherlock’s squirming and attempts at bucking, continuing his ministrations relentlessly. Sherlock tugged at John’s hair in warning and John pulled away, finishing Sherlock off with his hand.

“Ninety-six?” John asked, looking up at Sherlock.

“That was not a kiss,” Sherlock panted. “But it was appreciated nonetheless.”

John grinned at him and kissed the tip of Sherlock’s softening cock. He moved back up, giving Sherlock a thorough kiss before flopping down beside him. Sherlock rolled over to burrow into John’s side, and John wrapped an arm around him, dealing with himself quickly with his other hand, pulling Sherlock up for a kiss as he finished. They made half-hearted attempts at cleaning themselves with tissues before settling back down to curl up together. John dropped a kiss on Sherlock’s sweaty curls.

“Ninety-nine,” Sherlock said sleepily, sounding deeply pleased, with just a hint of surprise. In fact, now that John thought about it, every kiss Sherlock had counted aloud had been coloured by that same note of pleasure and disbelief. An unpleasant thought struck him.

“Do I not kiss you enough?” John asked softly. “Is that what the counting thing is about? Have I made you feel neglected or unwanted?” 

Sherlock nestled more firmly into John’s side.

“The fact that you kiss me at all is enough,” he murmured, sounding sleeping and wrung out.

John stiffened and nudged Sherlock slightly away from him, catching his eye.

“Sherlock, kissing you is... It’s ridiculous. I have to restrain myself, have ever since we started this... this,” John said. “I want to cover you in kisses day and night, but I don’t. Apart from the fact that we have to eat and sleep and other boring things, I restrain myself because I don’t really know if you like it. If you enjoy it, or if it makes you uncomfortable. You never initiate kisses. Sometimes you go stiff when I kiss you. So I save them for when I really need to kiss you, and promise myself that if you ever seem upset by them, I’ll stop. I know we should have talked about this, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to give up kissing you. So if I’m not kissing you enough, you need to tell me, because if I had my way that’s all we would ever do.”

“John,” Sherlock said slowly. “Why would I not want to be kissed by _you_?”

“What?”

“John, you could have anyone,” Sherlock said. “Women throw themselves at you _constantly_. Beautiful women with personalities you would consider perfectly pleasant, intelligent women, successful women, women that apparently other men would kill to be able to take to bed. Every time you kiss me instead of one of those women... I don’t understand it. I’m not particularly physically attractive, I’ve been described as ‘alien looking’ more than once, I’m abrasive, I’m indiscreet-”

“Sherlock, I don’t _want_ any of those women,” John said, cutting Sherlock off. “I don’t want anyone but you. That’s why I kiss you. That’s why I can’t stop myself from kissing you. It’s got nothing to do with your looks, although I don’t know who you’ve been talking to because you’re bloody gorgeous, and, yeah, you can be be an absolute bastard sometimes, but I don’t know what I would do if you started to be nice to people. The real question is what are you doing with an old, injured ex-soldier with an adrenaline addiction?”

“ _John_ , I- you- if you stopped kissing me-” Sherlock said slightly desperately. He stopped himself and took a moment to regain control of his ability to speak. “Your need for danger is rather... sexy. And you make an excellent cup of tea. Not to mention your marvellous taste in jumpers. For these reasons, and perhaps a few more, I would rather prefer it if you didn’t stop kissing me.”

John laughed and kissed Sherlock. One hundred.

“There,” John said smiling. “Now, I believe you owe me one hundred kisses in return.”

Sherlock smiled and leaned in. One.


End file.
